


I Love You, But I Can't Say It

by I_am_too_trash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Help, How Do I Tag, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I should be working on school, If You Squint - Freeform, It's like normal sherlock, John is sad, M/M, Mycroft is bad at feelings, Sad, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock is a Mess, Slightly OOC Sherlock, The Final Problem, YOLO, but - Freeform, but gayer, honey I love you I just cant smile, instead of molly, its a joke, its john, mystrade, no joy for anyone, than normal, the phone scene, the title is a play on words from that game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10976055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_too_trash/pseuds/I_am_too_trash
Summary: What if John Watson hadn’t come with Sherlock (for some reason, IDK) and Eurus made Sherlock call John instead of Molly? How much would that have completely wrecked Sherlock?





	1. "I Love you"

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, I love this scene, because I also ship Sherlolly, but this was also stuck in my head. Also, it shows how complex Molly is as a person. She is feminine, but she is still her own person. My headcanon for this is that John did love Sherlock, but he moved on and went with Mary(I love Mary too). Sherlock has loved John since (IMO) a little before the pool scene in season one. John didn't allow himself to love Sherlock because he was with Mary, and after she died, he didn't allow himself because he was mad at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't allow himself to even think of the words "I love you" about John, because he didn't want to ruin John's relationship, and he blames himself for Mary's death. Even though she low-key gives them her blessing. I found the script for this episode and It's taken a long time to rewrite basically the whole thing, but, I used the script as an outline for the whole thing.

 

“Coffin. Problem: someone is about to die. It will be – as I understand it – a tragedy.”  Sherlock stares at the coffin, rubbing the thumb of his gun hand over his brow.

“So many days not lived, so many words unsaid. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Morphing from a poor excuse of sadness to sarcasm in a matter of words.

“Yes, yes, yes, and this – I presume – will be their coffin.” Sherlock states rather than asks.

“Whose coffin, Sherlock? Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment.”

“Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I’d say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot six. Makes it more likely to be a man. Fit, regular exercise.”

“Not a child?” Lestrade asked, walking to stand beside Sherlock.

“A child’s coffin would be more expensive. This is a lower price range, although still seems as though there is care put into choosing it. Almost a military style.”

“Dear God.” Lestrade sighed and shook his head at Sherlock.

Mycroft, frowned, and walked over to the lid of the coffin, leaned against a wall.

“The lining also seems to-”

 “Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid.”

The brass shined off the dim light in the room, reflecting Sherlock’s annoyance.

“Only it isn’t a name.”

The brass plate reads “I love you”

“It’s for somebody who loves someone,” Lestrade adds while studying the words etched in brass.

Mycroft glances at his brother, “This is all about you. Everything here.”

Sherlock slowly puts his hands where the heart would be if there were a body in the coffin.

“So, brother dear, who loves you? I’m assuming it’s not a long list.”

Sherlock’s face pales. Lestrade walks to his side while Mycroft leans the lid against the wall. Mycroft visibly shaken but still, says the name that he knows will break his brother.

“John.”  Lestrade’s face goes white as if he’s seen a ghost. They all know he’s right. Eurus, seemingly pleased, leans toward the camera.

 “He is perfectly safe, for the moment.” Eurus makes the screen change to the flat of 221B, a countdown reading 3:00 in the top right corner.

“Your flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes,” Sherlock has not moved from where he was standing by the coffin, his eyes fixed on the screen. On John. “Unless I hear the release code from his lips. I’m calling him on your phone, Sherlock. Make him say it.” Eurus’s words visibly shook Mycroft. Both brothers seem as though all blood had been drained from them.

“Say what?” Lestrade asks, turning to face Eurus. Sherlock’s face hardens as he lowers his head, he obviously knows what he is to make John say.

“Obvious, surely?” Eurus laughs, looking at the detective.

Lestrade shook his head, shifting his weight, “No, it isn’t, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked-”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice cuts off Lestrade. Lestrade slowly turns to the lid leaning against the wall.

“Oh, one important restriction: you’re not allowed to mention, in any way at all that his life is in danger.” Sherlock grimaced, finally moving to face the screen. “You may not – at any point- suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and his life. Are we clear?” Sherlock nods, mechanically, steps closer to the screen. The speed dial ringing in their ears.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.”

Jim Moriarty acting as the crocodile to Sherlock’s Captain Hook before John finally looks over at his phone, he sighs and continues reading his newspaper.

“What’s he doing?” Sherlock snaps.

“He’s reading the news.” Mycroft answers, composing himself and walking to stand behind his brother. Sherlock glances to the timer, it reads 02:39.

“Yes, but why isn’t he answering his phone?” Sherlock looks up at the timer again.

“You never answer yours, I assume or is that privilege only for me,” Mycroft quips grimacing at his brother. 

John turns a page in the news.

“Yes, but it’s _me_ calling.” John lowers the paper to look at his phone again. The clock reaches 02:27 as his voicemail starts.

“Hullo, this is John Watson. I’m not here right now, please leave a message.”  
Sherlock runs his hand over his mouth, agitated, he starts tapping his finger against his leg. Both Lestrade and Mycroft look meaningfully at each other, not knowing what to do.

“Okay, okay. Just one more time.” Eurus simpers. The ringing begins again. The countdown is now at 02:12. Lestrade shifts his weight unconsciously moving closer to Sherlock, Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose before looking again at the screen. John sighs loudly, folds his paper, and stands up. It’s obvious that he was crying as he walks over to his phone. He sees that it’s Sherlock calling, hesitating, he picks up the phone. Sherlock has his forehead against the pistol, almost resting on it.

“Come on, John, answer the damn phone.” Lestrande says tightly.

When Sherlock hears John answer, he looks up.

“Sherlock, this had better be important.” John’s voice was scratchy, almost as if he had a cold.

“John, I just want you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why.”

“Oh, God. Sherlock, if this is one of your games, so help me,” John sighed. Sherlock backtracked rapidly, “No, it’s not a game. I… need you to help me.”

“Well,” John sniffed, “on, with it then.” Sherlock blinked rapidly and bit his lips. John sighed exasperatedly

“Sherlock, I have things to do. Quickly please? What is it?” 221B was replaced by Moriarty’s red tinted face.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.” The flat reappears, John looking annoyed.

“John, please, without asking why, just say these words.”  John, seeming intrigued, seeing as Sherlock almost never said please.

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Pardon?”

“I love you.” John’s face fell, then appeared to become stone.

“Goodbye Sherlock.”

Sherlock panicked, “John! Please no, wait, please don’t hang up! Do _not_ hang up.”

“Calmly, Sherlock, or I _will_ finish him right now.”

The timer is at 01:08.

“What are you doing Sherlock? Why are you doing this?”

“Please, I swear you just have to listen to me!”

Eurus’s voice cut the tension, before increasing tenfold. “Softer Sherlock.”

Sherlock ran his hand over his mouth again.

“John, this is for a case. It’s … it’s a sort of experiment.”

“I am not an experiment, Sherlock!” John yells, a bit too loud, before wiping a tear from his face. Sherlock’s eyes widen, panic evident.

“No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my …. Friend. We’re friends. But…. Please. Just... Say those words for me.”

“Sherlock, don’t do this. Not right now, Sherlock.” John’s voice cracks on the last word.

“It’s very important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.”

“Well, you never can, can you Sherlock?!”

“Please John.”

“I.. I can’t say that to you, Sherlock. I can’t” John’s voice is small, like when talking to a small animal.

“Of- Of course you can. _Why_ can’t you?”

“You know why.”

Sherlock, genuinely puzzled, “No, I don’t know why.”

John fought tears, sniffed, and replied “Yes you do Sherlock.”

The lights turn red, Jim appears on the screen, Sherlock screws up his eyes, raked his hands through his hair before looking back up at Jim. The light changed back to normal.

“John, just please say it.” He blinks his eyes rapidly.

“I can’t. Not to you.” John’s voice breaking on the last phrase.

“Why, John?”

“Because Sherlock,” He takes a breath, “Because it’s true.” He whispers it. Treating it like glass.

“Dear God above.” Lestrade whispers, glancing at Mycroft.

“Because,” tears staining his face, “it’s true, Sherlock.” The world seemed to weigh on John’s shoulders. He hangs his head. Lestrade’s head also drops and he pinches the bridge of his nose, Mycroft’s head follows suit. Sherlock is pale as a ghost, staring at John, in shock.

“Well, if it’s true just say it.” Sherlock says, straightening. John laughs without any joy in it.

“You bastard.”

“Say it, John.” Sherlock stares at the screen unmoving.

“You say it.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face is one of complete surprise.

“Say it. Say it like you mean it.” Running his hand over his mouth, Sherlock glances at Mycroft who seems to be in shock, Lestrade seems to be in a similar state.  

“Final thirty seconds.” The timer onscreen reads 00:31. Mycroft lifts his head, intending to help, but no words find him. Shaking his head, he steps toward his brother letting out a puff of air, and just move back to Lestrade. Sherlock still faced at the screen, his eyes closed. Taking a breath, he finds the courage to say those words he hadn’t allowed himself to even think about John.  John closed his eyes, fighting tears threatening to spill over. He steadies himself, before waiting for Sherlock to say the words he had wanted to hear since the day in the pool.

“I love you.” John quietly sighs, letting a small smile appear on his ashen face. Sherlock looks up at John, softly repeating the words, “I love you.”  John takes the phone from his ear, and looks at the screen for a moment. Sherlock is almost hyperventilating, thinking he’s going to hang up.

“John?” The countdown reads 00:13. John brings the phone back to his ear, eyes screwed shut, fighting the tears spilling down his face. Sherlock steps closer to the screen, eyes like a caged animal.

“John, please!” Opening his eyes, John stands like a soldier, straight back, taking a deep breath, whispers,

“I love you.” Sherlock gasps, looking like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. Both Lestrade and Mycroft let out breath in a sound of relief. Sherlock buries his head in his hands, crouching down.  The countdown stopped at 00:02. The screen shows John, face hidden from the camera, body shaking in silent sobs. Mycroft reaches out, in an attempt to console his brother, but Sherlock straightens up, tears still on his face.

“Eurus, I won. I won.” Sherlock says, attempting to hid the emotion in his face. Eurus remained silent. “Come on, play fair!” His voice breaks, “the girl on the plane: I need to talk to her.” Eurus still makes no sound.

“I won! I saved John Watson.”


	2. The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but I've made you guys wait, so, sorry!

“I won! I saved John Watson.” Eurus replaces John’s shaking form with her own face. She makes a withering sound before asking, “Saved him? From what?” She chuckles. “Oh do be sensible. There were no explosives in your flat. Why would I be so clumsy? You _didn’t_ win. You lost.” Sherlock looks at her, tear stained face painted with confusion.

“Look what you did to him. Look at what you did to yourself.” Sherlock turns away, shutting his eyes tightly.

“All those complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time.” Eurus continued to stare at Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock walks past the coffin, dropping the pistol, moving to the lid. Eurus sits back in her chair,

“Now, please pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn’t going to be so easy.” A door slides open; Mycroft turns to look at the noise. Lestrade takes a step toward Sherlock and opens his mouth, but closes it, and drops his head.

“In your own time.” Eurus’s face is replaced by the storming world outside. Sherlock picks up the lid, almost robotically and walks toward the coffin. Mycroft and Lestrade had started toward the door, but stopped, seeing Sherlock, not following. He places the lid of the coffin on the bottom and lowers his eyes, his breath catches, a choked sob follows.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade steps warily toward the figure crumpled over the coffin. Sherlock stands up and unbuttons his jacket.

“No. No.” He mutters. His normally inexpressive face twists in rage. He brings his right hand back, and crashes it down on the lid of the coffin, splintering it.  The scene became animalistic, Sherlock giving himself to his ID, smashing, destroying the coffin in hope that the ghost it held would be gone. He was no longer a man, he was a cornered animal, screaming in anguish, trembling on the shattered remains of the coffin. Tears of grief, rage, and pure frustration fall like the rain outside. Some time passes.

Lestrade picks his way across the minefield of wood, moving to the shaking, huddled form of the youngest Holmes. Sherlock hasn’t stopped shaking, staring at the floor in the fetal position, breath still shaky, occasionally choking out a sob. Mycroft stands, watching Sherlock, unsure what to do to help his brother. Lestrade stops a few paces from the shaking form.

“Sherlock, I can’t have any idea what you’re going through. You’re being tortured. But, you’ve got to keep it together. That sister of yours? She’ll use that against you, more than she already has.” Lestrade’s voice strong, but quiet. Sherlock doesn’t lift his head as he speaks.

“This isn’t torture; this is vivisection. We’re experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats.” Opening his eyes, he raises his head to lean it against the wall. Mycroft looks to his brother with pain in his eyes. Sherlock glances at his brother without moving his head, taking a deep breath, he looks up at Lestrade.

“You’re a good man, Sherlock,” Lestrade ran his hand over his mouth before continuing. “But, today, you’ve got to be a robot. Don’t let her use this against you.” Sherlock looked up at him, before nodding. Lestrade reached his hand out, offering it to the broken man who had once was accused of having no heart. Sherlock took Lestrade’s hand, standing up. Sherlock sniffs and then picks up the pistol out of the splinters of death. Straightening, the three men walk to the door across the room. The light flashes blood-red,

“Tick-tock, tickets please!”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the next challenge they faced (duh), but instead of John and Mycroft, it'll be Lestrade and Mycroft. Also, the "ID" is a Freudian idea, that is the animalistic side of your "persona."


	3. The last Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I know I've taken forever to finish this!! Please feel free to yell at me in the comments.

They walk to a large room, a large white and gray expanse. Sherlock glances around the room, there’s no windows or decorations.

“Hey, Eurus, don’t mean to complain, but this one’s empty. What happened? Did you run out of ideas?” Lestrade sneers and looks around the room. Sherlock still seems to be in shock. A screen flickers to life, showing Eurus.

“It’s not empty, Detective. You’ve still got the gun, haven’t you, little brother? I _told_ you you’d need it because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice,” Her smile widens, “It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most – Lestrade or Mycroft?” Mycroft frowns at Lestrade, who sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Eurus’ glee is evident in her speech. “It’s an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or Lestrade?” Sherlock closes his eyes and slowly turns to Mycroft and Lestrade. Lestrade runs his hand over his mouth before squatting slightly, realizing what Eurus implied. Moriarty flashes behind Sherlock, ticking with a crazed smile as if he could see them.

“Eurus, enough!” Mycroft barks.

“Not yet, I think.” Eurus’s leering face replacing Moriarty. “But nearly. Remember, there’s a plane in the sky, and it’s not going to land.”

Mycroft rubs his hands over his face and then lowers them before stepping toward his younger brother.

“Well?” Mycroft asked coldly.

“Well, what?” Sherlock snaps, looking at his brother with a slightly puzzled expression.

“We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?” Mycroft sniggers before turning to a shell shocked Lestrade. “I’m sorry, Detective inspector, you’re a fine man in many respects,” He remarks. Lestrade looks up anger flashing in his eyes. Mycroft turns back to Sherlock “Make your goodbyes and shoot him.” Sherlock just stares at Mycroft, the same slightly puzzled expression on his face. Mycroft sighs impatiently and points at Lestrade. “Shoot him!” he demands. Lestrade stares incredulously at the man calling for his death. “Pardon?” Dark brown eyes meet azure ones, for a second, there seemed to be a twinge of sadness in his eyes before it was replaced with his stoic expression. Turning to his brother, Mycroft says “Shoot Detective Gregory Lestrade. There’s no question who has to continue from here. It’s us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don’t prolong his agony; shoot him.”

“Hey, hold on now!” Lestrade interjects, “Do I get a say in this?” Mycroft turns to the detective.

“Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country.” Sherlock studies his brother. “I regret, Gregory, that privilege is now yours.” Lestrade closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Damn it.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock. “He’s right.”  Sherlock fixes his gaze on Lestrade. “He is right.” Lestrade continues. Mycroft shifts his eyes on Lestrade, but says to Sherlock,

“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with,” he tears his eyes away from Lestrade, “and we can get to work.”  Lestrade stands up straight, takes a deep breath, and faces Sherlock. Sherlock closes his eyes and looks away, Mycroft chuckles at the sight.

“God!” he scoffs, putting his hands in his pockets, a cruel smile lights his face. “I should have expected this.” His smile is replaced with scorn. “Pathetic.” He snarls, “you always were the slow one.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his brother, not meeting his eyes. Mycroft’s normally quiet and controlled voice rises with each word until he is nearly shouting. “You, idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing!” He nods toward Lestrade, “put this stupid little man out of all our misery.” Lestrade looks at Mycroft in a mix of terror, anger, and something else. “Shoot him!” Mycroft yells.

“Stop it.” Sherlock hissed.

“Look at him. What is he?” Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, seemingly unable to look at the detective. “Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for us to impress, to dazzle with our cleverness. We’ll find another.”

“Please, for God’s sake, just stop it,” Sherlock mutters.

“Why?” Mycroft taunts, the very picture of cold apathy.

“Because,” Sherlock answers, slowly facing him, “on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.” Mycroft blinks a few times before lowering his head in defeat. The detective finally stops boring a hole in Mycroft’s head. Sherlock faces Lestrade but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Ignore everything he just said. He’s being kind. He’s trying to make it easy for me to kill him.” He looks at Lestrade, who is staring at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

“Which is why this is going to be so much harder.” Sherlock faces Mycroft, aiming the gun at him. Eurus seems to almost show a true smile. Mycroft smiles ruefully at Sherlock.

“You said you _liked_ my Lady Bracknell.” He chuckles.

“Sherlock. Stop.” Lestrade seems to break out of his reverie and stares up at Sherlock.

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft reminds him. Lestrade looks to Mycroft.

“Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.”  Sherlock closes his eyes, his hand shakes.

“Where would you suggest?” He asks, opening them.

“Well,” Mycroft brushes some invisible dust from his shoulder, “I suppose there is a heart _somewhere_ inside me.” He looks down and straightens his tie. “I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but…” Sherlock’s face, still stained with tears, twists in anguish for a moment. “Why don’t we try for that?”

“I won’t allow this,” Lestrade states, walking next to Sherlock. “It should be me.” He sighs.

“This is my fault.” Mycroft looks to Sherlock. “Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” Sherlock asks.

“Her Christmas treat; five minutes’ conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago.”

“Well,” Lestrade shifts from foot to foot slightly, “What did they say?”

“Five minutes’ conversation,” Mycroft starts before Sherlock chuckles without humor. “Unsupervised.” Lestrade stares at Mycroft in shock before looking back and forth between the two brothers. He steps away, still looking at the two brothers. Sherlock sighs and grips the pistol with both hands and aims the gun at his brother. Mycroft straightens up and looks at Sherlock. “Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers,” He rests his hands behind his back, “by request.” Sherlock shifts his grip on the gun and takes aim. Eurus’ eyes widen, breathlessly staring at Sherlock.

“Jim Moriarty thought you’d make this choice. He was _so_ excited.” Moriarty appears on the screen, his voice so soft, it made his words more painful.

“And here we are, at the end of the line. Homes killing Holmes.” Mycroft shifts uncomfortably ever so slightly while Sherlock continues to stare at his brother, determination in his narrowing eyes.

“This is where I get off.” Moriarty chuckles. His blood-curdling smile replaced with Eurus.

“Five minutes. It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.” Sherlock seethes through clenched teeth. He looks to Lestrade, who stares at Mycroft, with a mix of emotions. Sherlock turns to his brother as well, who is staring unblinkingly at him. Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment before lowering the gun and turning away.

“Well, not on my watch.” Sherlock decided. Mycroft’s face twists in confusion. Lestrade looks away from Mycroft, adjusts his cufflinks and turns to Sherlock.

“What are you doing?” Eurus inquires tremulously. Sherlock turns to face the others.

“A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.” Mycroft looks at his brother in alarm.

“I’m remembering the governor.” Grasping the pistol in both hands, he lifts the muzzle and presses it under his chin. As calm as if he were taking a stroll in the park.

“Ten…”

Eurus frowns, “No, no, Sherlock.” Lestrade looks to Mycroft before understanding flickers in his eyes and turns back to Sherlock.

“Nine...” Both Mycroft and Lestrade stare at Sherlock in horror.

“Eight…”

“You can’t!”

“Seven…”

“You don’t know about Redbeard yet!” Eurus exclaims. Sherlock lowers one hand and continues to hold the gun to his chin.

“Six…”

“Sherlock!”

“Five.”

“Sherlock, stop that at once!” As she yells, a dart flies out of a hole in the wall and hits the back of Sherlock’s head. He reaches up and pulls it out with his left hand.

“Four…” Another dart shoots Lestrade in the back of his neck.

“Three…” Sherlock’s voice is quieter, fighting the drugs the dart delivered.

“Two…” He slowly falls backward, eyes close, pistol falling out of his grip. He lands in a pool of thick black oil, which seems reach out for him and pulls him under the viscous liquid.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely “a-ship-in-every-port (lathir)” asked if I could write a chapter with Sherlock and John meeting after “The Final Problem” and I’m happy to oblige!  
> Also, I'm so sorry this has taken forever!

Eurus is being led away from the house by two police officers, tears still sparkle in her eyes. Police vehicles are parked all around, there is the faint sound of a helicopter nearby. Sherlock just watches. Lestrade stands beside him, wrapped in a grey blanket. John walks over to the two men.

“I just spoke to Mycroft,” John says, not looking at either of them.

“What happened to him?” Lestrade asks, looking to John.

“He’s not hurt, she just locked him in her old cell,” John replies, still not looking at either of them. “What goes around comes around.”

“I’ll go speak with him,” Lestrade suddenly gets up, speaking for the first time since he was pulled from the well. He starts to walk away when Sherlock grabs his arm and whispers,

“Oh, um. Mycroft – make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Lestrade nods and walks away.

“Thanks, Greg.”

Sherlock returns to huddling in his blanket but looks to John. John is watching Eurus being loaded inside a reinforced cell inside one of the police vans. Sherlock’s eyes try to catch Johns before quietly saying,

“I’m sorry.” John jumps at his sudden words. He turns to look at Sherlock, eyes red and puffy from crying.

“How-” his voice breaks. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “How am I supposed to respond to that, Sherlock?” Sherlock looks away, suddenly unable to meet John’s eyes.

“I don’t know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight the waves of emotion beating inside,

“I don’t know,” he says again. “I thought she would have killed you. Please, all I’m asking is for you to understand I thought I had no choice.”

“Sherlock,” John takes in a quick breath before pushing forward. “I understand.” He glances at Lestrade before continuing “Lestrade explained. Everything, I mean.”  

“Is it good?” John looks away before answering,

“It’s not good, it’s not bad. It’s...” He sniffs and looks at the ground, “It is what it is.”

John stands in their living room, looking through the mail when a white padded envelope with “Special Delivery” stamped on it. John calls for Sherlock, opening the letter. When Sherlock comes in the room, John is holding a DVD with the words “MISS YOU” written on it. Sherlock sits on the nearest sofa while John set up the DVD. Starting the disk, John sits next to Sherlock, tension thick enough to cut with the harpoon on the wall. Mary is smiling on the television. Both John and Sherlock on in a state of shock.

“P.S,” Mary says, shifting slightly in her seat.  “I know you two; and if I’m gone, I know what you could become.” Sherlock turns to John, who is smiling at the screen, tears in his eyes.

“Because I know who you really are.”

John turns to look at Sherlock.

“A junkie who solves crimes to get high, and the doctor who never came home from the war.”

The flat has been restored, looking almost the same as when John first stepped foot into 221B. John sits on the sofa, Sherlock is next to him. Sherlock reaches his hand out to hold John’s.

“Well, you listen to me: who you really are, it doesn’t matter.”

John spray paints the familiar smiley face before stepping back to look at Sherlock, who raises a pistol.

“It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures.”

Two shots ring out.

“There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted.”

Sherlock finds some of his cigarettes, somehow survived the explosion. He takes one out of the packaging.

“There is a final court of appeal for everyone.”

Sherlock throws the whole carton away, before turning to John, who is asleep in his chair, Rosie in his arms.

“When life gets too strange, too impossible,”

Sherlock is pacing in front of a client, John is diligently writing down details, neither seem bothered by the fact that the client is an old-fashioned ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Too frightening, there is always one last hope.”

Sherlock stares at a strange collection of “dancing men” figures on a chalkboard. John, by his side, on his laptop.

“When all else fails,”

Rosie is taking her first steps without help. She takes a few paces toward Sherlock before falling.

“There are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat,”

Sherlock is cradling Rosie in his arms, she tries to reach his nose, making Sherlock give an actual smile. He turns to see John coming into the room.

“Like they’ve always been there,”

John stares, joy in his eyes, watching Sherlock holding Rosie so gently.

“And they always will.”

Sherlock hands Rosie over to John, who kisses her cheek as she giggles. A ring is visible on his hand. 

“The best and wisest men I have ever known.”

John and Sherlock run side by side out of a large stone building with ‘Rathbone Place’ engraved on a plaque.

“My Baker Street boys."  
John and Sherlock hold hands, their rings clink together.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me through my unreliable updates! I love you all so much for all of your positivity about my writing. Thank you so much! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you liked it! Constructive criticism is always appreciated! Kudos and Comments make me happy! (I don't even ship Johnlock that much, and yet, here I am. My first chaptered fic is for a ship I don't ship that much. This is my life.)


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